


trust me, my darling

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [31]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Dirty Jokes, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Queerplatonic relationship, Triggers, Vomiting, a brief return to some of thancred's arr persona but in a better and more rounded way, discussion of emotional self-harm, ikael is his enthusiastic audience, important conversation but on the ground, in which i realize thancred writing music means i have to write music, thancred is a bard, thancred knows basic psychology 101, traumatic reactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22551118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: They have built themselves from the ground up. They have built eachotherso that they fit together, imperfect but perfect, piece by slotted piece.
Relationships: Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters
Series: ikael [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/909954
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	trust me, my darling

The bard takes his seat back on the stool, shifting to get comfortable. The barmaid’s daughter elbows her mother, hiding a whisper in her giggle, and her head turns. Soon enough the rest of the tavern takes notice, and the clutter of noise bends, folds in half. The bard begins. His voice is clear and surprisingly soft, but it fills the room nevertheless, seeping into the nooks and crannies of the patrons’ silence.

_Hush now my darling, I will not lead you astray._

_Trust me my darling, my shadows will find their way_

_To you._

_By the smoke curling out from your lips as you laugh._

_The sunlight that leaks from your eyes—_

A piece of lettuce smacks Thancred in the cheek, fails to stick, and falls between his feet. He stops singing and stares at it.

“Do ‘Wonder’ again!” someone yells.

Thancred leans down and picks up the offending leaf vegetable. He can hear indiscreet, furiously whispered scolding, but his mouth is already working, chattering on in a friendly tone to cover him as he collects himself.

“My gallant folk,” it says, “I fear that is a sign that my muse has left me for the evening. I shall take leave of your attention, if I may. Thank you for being the most pleasurable audience I have had the honour of performing for.”

He straightens to bow, and then again, as smattering applause turns stronger and more enthused. A good reception for merely a song and a half. Despite the lettuce.

He tucks his lulett under his arm and makes his way to the bar, stopping only to smile and shake his head when a few patrons try to press gold into his palms. He works for free, he tells them, and the only outcome he desires from his music is to bring a smile to their sweet faces.

He sits at the counter with one last wink (more congenial than flirtatious, although the girl that blushes from it probably doesn’t care for the difference). The tavern’s native band starts back up, beginning to play a mellow tune, and Thancred kisses his coin for an ale.

“They were looking at ye fur the whole round,” a heavily-accented voice comments to his right.

Thancred glances past the rim of his tankard and meets the gaze of a tall galdjent with thick facial hair and equally thick arms. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “‘They?’”

The galdjent juts his jaw out, pointing with his bristly red beard. Thancred follows his line of sight and sees Ikael, sitting next to a drahn girl that is far too young to be this near freely-flowing alcohol. He watches as Ikael covers her cupped hand with his own, leans forward to whisper something that earns him a giggle, and then uncovers it with a flourish. Her eyes widen at the daisy he has “magically” slipped in and she squeals, immediately sticking her nose into it.

“Yer companion,” the galdjent clarifies. Thancred looks back at him. “Ye came in with them earlier, a saw ye.”

“Ikael. He’s my partner.” Thancred takes a sip of his ale. It drips cool down his throat, and he sighs in relief.

“Yer… partner? Oh, aye.” The galdjent’s tone and the sly slant of his eyes hold an obvious implication, but Thancred does not bother to dismiss it. “Richt, aye. Was yer song aboot him, then?”

“It was.” Thancred shrugs one shoulder. “Both of them were, actually.”

The galdjent nods sagely. “Good on ye,” he rumbles. “Tell ye what, lad: ye might look like a wee boy without yer fluff grown in, bit it makes it better fur him when yer aff tae town, aye? Good oan ye fer thinking oan yer partner.”

And he gives a somewhat stunned Thancred an approving thump on the back, winking at him before sliding off his stool and trundling away. Thancred stares after him. A minute later he hesitantly touches his chin.

“‘Fluff,’” he mutters. Then, under his breath, “Right. _Gods_.”

He drags himself over to where Ikael is now sitting alone, slowly bobbing to the rhythm of the band’s current song. He smiles as Thancred approaches, flicking his tail.

“There you are, _sína_. Say, could you imagine why their garlic bread is cheaper than their regular bread? Do you think they have an excess of garlic, perhaps, and are trying to get rid of it?”

“Wouldn’t it go off faster?” Thancred pulls up a chair. He sets his tankard and an elbow down on the table, watching Ikael mull the suggestion over.

“I think you are right. I have never baked garlic bread,” he declares after a moment, fluttering his fingertips. With that, the topic is dismissed. “What are you pouting about, hm? That was a lovely song and a quarter, and everyone seemed to think so, but you have a little crease right,” He pokes Thancred in the forehead with one warm finger, “Here.”

“Oh, so my age is showing in all the _wrong_ ways,” Thancred complains. It earns him an uptick in Ikael’s smile.

“What is the right way, yeah? Your eeking creaking bones?” Ikael elbows him, a teasing glint in his eye.

Thancred resists the urge to stick his tongue out and further incite commentary on his age, and instead strokes his chin. “Maybe just a little bit of growth here. Is that truly too much to ask?”

Ikael shrugs, making a thoughtful face at the table. “I do not have any itchy facial hair, and I do not feel too young. Shtola has even helped me with that freakish thing you all did before you started to age again. I very much like how old I look.”

“Well, it is different for you. Miqo’te have a more…” Thancred gestures loosely with his tankard, taking care not to spill its insides, “… youthful look about them anyways. ‘Tis harder to gauge age.”

Ikael cocks his head. “We do?” he asks. “Oh. I’ve never noticed.”

“Yes, you do. It makes it all very convenient for you, you know. People don’t think _you_ look like a boy,” Thancred grumbles into a sip of ale.

He realizes how that sounds as soon as the words leave his mouth, and he winces even as Ikael’s lips creep upwards in a smile.

“Well, no, they don’t,” he admits, amusement threading through his tone. “Although, to be fair,” he adds with a considering expression, “I’m not.”

Fair point. Still, Thancred slides his face further into his drink, attempting to hide both his verbal bluster and the slight colouring in his cheeks it has produced. Ikael laughs it off anyway, goodhearted and not offended in the slightest.

They sit and chat and drink for an easy half bell or so more. A couple of people approach Thancred and offer him either a compliment or a coin, which he accepts and declines, respectively, with a smile. Amusingly—mostly when he laughs that scratchy laugh of his—a few folk look at Ikael with something like budding realization, and one person even ducks down to try and discreetly catch a glimpse of his eyes. Thancred had specifically not sung anything about eyes—trite nonsense at worst and cliché at best, he finds (not that that had stopped him in his younger years)—so what it is they're looking for he has no idea. Still, it entertains him in some ridiculous way, especially when a confused Ikael shifts his seat even closer to Thancred's to shield himself from their whispers, only to end up inciting more.

Honestly, if Ikael leaves this tavern with the title of _the bard’s lover_ prevailing over _Warrior of Darkness_ , Thancred will consider it one of his greater accomplishments.

The peace of the evening comes to a simple end, however, when the little drahn girl Ikael had been speaking to earlier shows up.

She is tailed, thankfully, by an adult who shares her likeness. Thancred does not think he could bear the strain of another parentless little girl. She walks up to Ikael, ducking her head shyly, and tugs at his sleeve.

“Needsee your hands, Ekaal,” she says. From her other fist, hidden indelicately behind her back, pokes out something small and blue.

Ikael gasps softly as he kneels in front of her. “Do you have a surprise for me, Cirra?” he asks in the indulgent tone one usually reserves for such small children or perhaps meandering nutkin (if they are so inclined). “Why, you shouldn’t have! Your lovely company was more than enough repayment.”

He grins at her and she giggles, bubbly and trill. The woman behind her smiles, shooting Thancred a look that says _Aren’t they sweet?_ Thancred smiles back, refraining from asking her why she left this child to run around in a tavern without supervision.

“Hand please,” Cirra insists, grabbing Ikael's wrist and spreading his fingers out. “Please. Eyesclosed.”

He closes his eyes obediently. Cirra promptly slaps her closed fist onto his hand with absolutely no flair _or_ panache, grabs his other hand, and seals it over hers. Then she squeezes her fingers out, starting to giggle again.

“Eyes open!” she says. “Open, open. Please.”

Ikael opens his eyes, then his hands, and gasps dramatically. Cupped in his palm lies a small, somewhat crushed blue flower, glowing softly.

“Issa nightflower I got special foryou Mam says fellfrom the sky,” Cirra explodes all in one breath.

Ikael—

His eyes—jitter, and something _yanks—_

“It’s beautiful! Thank you, sweetheart.” His lips blossom into a smile, sweet as nectar. “I shall treasure it always. But shouldn’t you, ah…?” He glances at the woman behind her.

“We should be getting to bed,” she agrees, petting Cirra’s hair. She smiles as well, although it is nervous. “I’m so sorry for bothering you, especially since it’s so late, but she was insistent.”

“No, please, this—this was a lovely surprise.” Ikael’s voice turns gentle. The rest of the conversation and the ensuing goodbyes is something Thancred has heard a thousand times, and he mostly tunes it out, only nodding to the woman when she leaves so as not to be rude.

He glances at Ikael after they have gone, about to make a comment about parenting and bedtimes, but stops when he sees his face. The kind expression he was wearing is melting off like wax, leaving behind a pained grimace.

“Thanc—Thancred,” he says. He blinks rapidly, three times.

Thancred starts to frown. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t—I don’t.” Ikael frowns as well, in a jitter, and when he looks at Thancred his eyes are confused. “I-I-I don’t—don’t—don’t know. I-I—”

His voice is getting worryingly choked. “Easy,” Thancred says, pushing his empty tankard aside so he can face Ikael properly. He rests his hand against his chest, steadying him. “Deep breaths. In—with me, Ikael. Out.”

“I-I-I.” Ikael breathes in with him, and on the exhale, his whole body begins to shake. His eyes widen. “Oh fuck, I don’t know what—what—Thancred—”

Thancred is already standing. They need to get out of here to somewhere private. He counts out their tab quickly, leaves a bit extra for a tip, and loops his arm underneath Ikael’s. The shaking is getting steadily worse, now gone from trembling to small spasms. Thancred clenches his jaw, shoving his lulett into his pack and swinging both it and Ikael’s over his free shoulder.

“I-I-I think I’m going to—vomit. Thanc—Thancre—” Ikael still sounds confused, but now he also sounds scared—in a distant way, as if he is remembering a far greater fear now passed. Thancred all but storms them out of the tavern, grateful when people part before them with worried murmurs.

He steers them towards the inn at a swift march. “Tell me when you’re going to throw up,” he orders.

Ikael slams on his chest not thirty seconds later, and Thancred spins him around and holds him as he starts to retch. Up comes their dinner and the sweetcakes Ikael had gushed over for a quarter of a bell. Thancred grimaces, but does his best to steady him until he is done.

A minute later, Ikael is still shaking, but less than he had been. He straightens up slowly. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, trembling against Thancred's side. “I-I’m sorry…”

Thancred is already shushing him. “Can you walk?” he asks.

Ikael nods jerkily. Still, Thancred keeps an arm around his waist as they make their way to the inn. He catches a stagger more than once, and he plants his weight into his feet, sinking them into the cobblestones with each step he takes.

They don’t have a room, but a glance at Ikael and a toss of a perhaps overly shiny coin means the innkeep lets Thancred leave him in a free one before he signs them in. Just the mystel, he warns, and not their things. Thancred is already nodding in gratitude, dragging a frighteningly pale Ikael up the stairs.

“Don’t move,” he tells him as he lays him on the bed. The shaking still hasn’t subsided. Ikael’s skin is cold and clammy, but more worriedly, his pupils are blown open, round with something that Thancred is loathe to recognize as terror.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he promises, trying and failing to catch Ikael’s hazy gaze. “I’ll take care of you, Ikael. Hold on.”

He all but flies down the stairs. The forced swallow that clamps down on his panic also thickens his blood, evens his breathing. His signature is steady when he signs at the check-in, and his face is even when he tells the innkeep that they’ll stay for one night at least, and he’ll pay again in the morning if he needs to. No, they don’t want food sent up. No, they don’t need a lantern, but thank you.

Thancred sticks his hand out in front of him out of habit as he jogs up the stairs, two at a time. It is not quivering except with his stride. The small hairs on the back of it lie flat. He curls his fingers.

His pulse is racing.

He half expects to open the door to find Ikael foaming at the mouth, tossing and seizing on the bed. Hells, some paranoid part of him whispers that a Lightwarden will be waiting for him, ready to strike as soon as he crosses the threshold. But there is nothing.

No, truly, there is _nothing_. There are bedsheets, and they are twisted and thrown, half on the floor. There is a window, and it is open, its curtains billowing inwards like a ghostly skirt.

There is no Ikael.

Well, Thancred thinks, _fuck._

~*~

He does not even bother to consider the most sensible explanation first—that Ikael had simply wandered into another room. It is clear from the bedsheets alone that he had left through the window, and it is also unfortunately clear, as Thancred looks out and realizes that he doesn’t see so much as a friendly bush, that he had jumped. From the second story. Thancred stares at the imprint on the ground below, swears, and follows suit.

At least Ikael doesn’t appear to be trying to cover his tracks. Not that he would be able to, not from Thancred, but it would take precious time to crouch and follow them carefully. Thancred keeps cursing under his breath as he walks out into the wilderness; cursing himself for taking so long, cursing whatever had caused this reaction, and cursing Ikael for fleeing, or tottering off in a delirious haze, or chasing paradise, or whatever the hells the poor bastard thinks he’s doing.

His tracks say he is limping, most likely from the jump. Thancred is mostly concerned he’ll wander into someplace dangerous and get himself shanked, mauled, or Sin Eater’d, all while staring off into the distance with that same blank look on his face he had given Thancred. It isn’t as if… this hasn’t happened before, although it has never resulted in _this_ particular series of events. But Thancred has seen the shaking, and the vomiting, and the glazed, terrified eyes. He has seen something like it before Ikael, even, but it had never wrenched at him in the same way. It is different when it is someone he makes himself vulnerable enough to care about. It is different when it is someone who cares about _him_.

Not that Thancred would have been able to deal with this before all of his own problems had been resolved. He would have frozen, struck in conflict, and he would have lost. That is all his inaction has ever earned him: loss. And it would have shorn him to jagged pieces to lose Ikael and Minfilia at the same time.

Now, at least, he is pieces being slowly sewn back together.

The blessed thing about Ikael’s probably sprained ankle and his unsteady gait is that he is slow. It is not long before his footprints begin to cluster and stagger. Thancred speeds up even when they become undecipherable on hardening ground, because he has spotted a leg sticking out from behind a rocky outcropping.

He doesn’t dare call out as he runs to it, afraid to spur an impromptu chase. He _wants_ to, wants to rush to Ikael and shake him and ask _Why did you run from me what do you think you’re doing why did you do that gods I was so worried_ —but he doesn’t. There is a process to this he must follow, or else he could make it worse.

He slows as he approaches, and when he rounds the boulder Ikael is sitting behind, it is cautiously, with a deliberately nonthreatening posture. Ikael looks up at him, which is reassuring, but the movement is jerky and doesn’t stick, and his eyes teeter off to the right.

“Thancred,” he whispers. His voice is croaky, as if his throat is packed with dust. “You can’t follow me. You can’t be with me. I have to go alone. I have to…”

Thancred kneels down in front of him slowly. “Ikael, I need you to listen to me,” he says.

Ikael shakes his head. His face contorts, and he hisses through his teeth. Thancred has never asked whether he feels a phantom pain on the few occasions this has happened before. From the look on his face and the way he screws his eyes shut, it seems likely.

“You need to _go_ ,” he wheezes, grimacing. “Thancred, you need to _go_. You can’t stay here with me. You can’t. I-I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt anyone.” Thancred's voice is firm. “The danger is passed, Ikael. It is over. You have nothing inside of you—you are clean. Ikael,” he raises his voice slightly as Ikael's head turns to the side, away from him. “Listen to me! Listen to me. Hey.”

Ikael’s eyes flutter open. “Thancred…” he mumbles to the sky.

Thancred leans in close. “It is over. Do you see the stars above you? Can you feel the ground beneath your hands? Do you know where we are? We are in Kholusia. We stopped at a tavern after picking up the bounty for an Eater. That’s what we do now, remember? The business with the Lightwardens is finished. Done.”

Ikael takes a deep breath. His chest quivers as he lets it out. “It is… over?” he asks in a small voice.

Thancred nods. “Yes,” he says. “I need you to do something for me, Ikael. It’s very important. Tell me what you see around you. Describe it to me.”

Ikael’s eyelashes shiver. He swallows dryly, and rolls his head around. “I-I see… you. I see yo—you.”

Thancred smiles at him, though it is a brittle thing. “Yes, very good. What else?”

“I-I see… There’s a—there’s a—there’s a—rock. It is… brown. Grey, a little bit. Hard.” His fingers curl. “Dir—dirt. Beneath me. More rocks. They are hard, and cold. There’s a little bit of grass.”

He plucks out a few blades, tucking them into his fist. “I-it is… dark out. It is night. It should be night, because we…”

He swallows. “We’re in Kholusia,” he says to Thancred's chin. “You sang a pretty song about me, and then you started another one, but someone threw a leaf or something at you. A-and then you picked it up and…”

His brow furrows. “I ate it,” Thancred suggests lightly.

Ikael looks him in the eye worriedly. “You ate a leaf?”

“It was lettuce.” Thancred reaches out, palm open. “That’ll do for now. Do you know the date?”

Ikael takes his outstretched hand and squeezes it tightly. “The calendar here confuses me a—a little,” he says. Then, “Please, please, can I—”

“Of course,” Thancred exhales. Ikael’s grip tightens, and he lurches forwards. Thancred catches him easily, rocking back to take his weight. He settles them against the jutting rock, his arms secure even as Ikael shakes and shakes and shakes.

“I thought,” Ikael gasps, “I-I thought i-it was inside me again, oh gods. I-I thought I was going to—going to hurt you. I-I couldn’t—I couldn’t—”

“Easy,” Thancred murmurs. It won’t do to send him into another episode. “Don’t think about it too much. Think about the here and now.”

Ikael burrows his nose in his shoulder. “I thought I was better off alone,” he whispers. “Because it—because it was hurting me so much, a-and…”

Thancred has figured this out by now, after all these years. Ikael runs and runs and runs, but it is not to flee. It is odd, and it is sad, and he almost wishes he didn’t understand it because it makes _him_ hurt—it forms a dull, frigid ache in his chest—but he is glad he does, in the end.

“I know,” he says, stroking Ikael’s back. “I know why you isolate yourself so.”

Ikael shakes his head against his neck. “I-I am sorry. I know it must worry you. But I just—”

“Hurting yourself doesn’t make things better for me, sweetheart,” Thancred says, firmly but extraordinarily gently. The words are sharp and fragile like glass, and Ikael will cut himself on them if he gets the chance. “Neither during nor after.”

Ikael goes stiff as a corpse. “What?” he whispers, shocked.

“It is what you do,” Thancred continues in the same tone. “You dig a pit in your heart by running away. You don’t run from people because you want to protect them, Ikael. It is because you hate being alone. You revile it. It tears you apart inside to be abandoned, and so you force it on yourself. Am I wrong?”

Ikael, who has been slowly calming down, begins to tremble again. Harsher, and harsher still, and Thancred grits his teeth and clutches at him as he all but _screams_ into his chest. It is a long, jagged, wretched sound. Then his arched spine collapses, all his energy spent, and he begins to sob brokenly.

“I’m sorry,” Thancred whispers, and kisses his head and holds him.

It is a wonder, Thancred marvels as Ikael gradually loses his strength, that they slot together like they do. Thancred is a hard vicious thing with round edges the worlds have sharpened, and yet Ikael clings to his doublet and finds comfort in him, in all his harshness and grit. His cheek is soft and wet and his hand is trembling and he is breathing in shakily, just barely, like he can trust Thancred to see him like this even if he has wounded him so deeply. It could mean nothing but it means everything because theirs is a bond forged through blood and sweat and battle but also love and beauty and tears, and how often does that come around, really?

Thancred clutches Ikael in return, digs his fingers into his soft leather tunic and presses deeply, until an open heart flutters against his own, a head sweet and soft shifts against the bones of his skull and jaw and nose. He inhales, closing his eyes.

“I love you,” he murmurs into black hair. Then again, “I’m so sorry.”

The sweet head shifts. An ear twitches against Thancred's cheek, and Ikael’s fingers curl tighter into his collar.

“Don’t be,” he croaks in response. “Not when you’re right.”

Thancred strokes along a shoulder blade, its indent barely discernable. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t write anything down,” he murmurs.

Ikael chokes out a laugh at that. “I love you too,” is all he says in reply, hoarse and quiet.

Thancred waits until the air feels less tight and the wind is more peaceful. After a minute or so, he asks, “Because I haven’t been cataloguing your sins?”

He glimpses a flash of white teeth as Ikael readjusts his head so it is resting more comfortably against him. “Yeah.”

“Ah.” Thancred adopts a knowing tone. “So by that logic, if I burn your journal, I’ll suddenly start to like you better.”

Ikael snorts—a hot puff of air against his chest. “You’re still bleeding from that, are you? I’ve got more, Waters. I can kill you with my words.”

Thancred isn’t, really; the chiding they are referring to was long due, and it has long since passed. Still, Ikael’s voice is teasing, and he wants to keep it from dipping into somberness once more. He says, “Provided you can spell them correctly. Don’t tell me you write down every little habit I have that irritates you just so you can throw them at me at the worst possible moment.”

He feels Ikael’s lips press together. “Hmm,” he draws out, insincerely serious. “Maybe.”

“Fine. Let’s hear it, then,” Thancred declares. “ _Jelaar_.”

“Let me see…” Ikael drawls. As he ponders, Thancred's arm around his back shifts to hold him more securely. “Well. I think your showering habits are a bit disruptive, for starters. Hearing _‘Ohh,_ Ikael _,_ you’re so sexy and attractive _, hnng OH GODS!’_ is flattering the first time, but every morning, really? A cat treasures his sleep.”

Oh, so they're _going_ there. Alright then. Thancred rolls up his metaphorical sleeves.

“Better than every night when you’re lying right next to me,” he returns demurely. “I’ve told you many times, Ikael: my legs are meant for walking, and that is all. Use your hand or a pillow like a normal person, why don’t you? And _especially_ when we’re out traveling.” He clicks his tongue scoldingly. “I fear poor Alphinaud will _never_ recover.”

Ikael pulls his head back only to gape at him, and then his face breaks as he explodes into a fit of giggles. Thancred grins in return, then laughs with him, knocking their heads together.

“Twelve,” Ikael mutters. “This is why no one ever wants to share a tent with us, Thancred.”

A moment, and he bursts, “I didn’t mean it like _that!_ ” but it is too late. Thancred's shoulders are already shaking with mirth, and even his face hidden in Ikael’s shoulder doesn’t fully stifle his laughter.

“We’re so _awful_ ,” Ikael bemoans to the sky, before collapsing and joining him in his fate.

And their spirits remain high, thankfully, for the rest of the night.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, please tell me! thank you ;v;


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